Friday 29 May 2009 06.03 EDT
First published on Friday 29 May 2009 06.03 EDT

Well, I know I'm still here because I can feel me breathing – other than that, it's all up for grabs. Since I last wrote I have, dear reader, been in Glasgow, Ullapool, Aberdeen, Oxford, London, Bakewell, Tissington and various bits of leafy Warwickshire. This is partly a continuation of my cunning plan to inspire the bejeezus out of myself with random experiences – Tissington involved well-dressing, for example. I had never seen a dressed well before and will henceforth be shocked if I meet a well in a state of undress. "Lawks-a-mercy !" I shall cry, "A bare-nekkid well. I must avert my eyes."

Mainly, however, my travelling is a testament to the truly impressive number of literary festivals with which the UK now provides itself. All over the country, large and small organisations bring together appropriately-sized numbers of readers and other interested parties to have, in the widest possible sense, literary experiences that are at the very least fun (if not inspiring) and which are woefully under-represented in the wider media. How long these particular gatherings will last is anybody's guess as publishers cut expenses to the bone, through the bone and out to the threadbare trousering on the other side. (I was thinking of a leg bone: if you weren't, you're just going to have to imagine someone who can't dress themselves proper, or picture a sleeve or other suitable habiliment all by yourself. I know you'll manage.) Publishers currently subsidise travel and accommodation for many festival appearances and withdrawing this support may mean some smaller festivals fold – which would be quietly tragic, because festivals kindle and encourage a range of excellent things to do and be which might otherwise simply remain undiscovered, or make a noise like a hoop and roll away for lack of support. At the very least, festivals add to the sum of human happiness and sell books.

And, on a related topic, The South Bank Show's gone. Is this wise? I know SBS didn't involve yelling or tits, and was therefore unsuitable for British television, but I've met so many people who sat at home like me when they were nippers and/or teenagers and had their sanity saved by that show. There we were, possibly feeling we were slightly strange, compared with our surroundings, and there Melvyn was with his diddly theme tune and a weekly blast of things we'd guessed we might like, but ended up loving, along with stuff we'd never heard of and worlds of unimagined possibility – there other people were, imagining those possibilities. When I was young, unsure of most things, buried alive in Dundee and showing no sign of being able to find a job that wouldn't make me crazy and then fired, SBS delivered a weekly jolt of oxygen and hope. To say nothing of it enthusing me about things I'd just plain assumed I wouldn't enjoy. It's our loss if we let it go without at least an equivalent replacement and some kind of thank you.

No, it's particularly the loss of the generation from whom we have already stolen an education system, a functioning and credible democracy and a variety of other things they might have found useful. It's not that I like all children indiscriminately – some of them are appalling – but I would rather they didn't grow up being more than averagely miserable and underfullfilled.

Meanwhile and on an also not-unrelated topic: Ullapool – a great wee festival all the way up in the far(ish) North – next stop, Isle Martin and the Summer Isles - with the listeningest audiences I've ever met. A weekend of talk and thought and a genuine sense of one long conversation/meditation being conducted over the course of consecutive events. The organisers looked after everyone extremely well with friendly attention to detail in a remarkable location. In that kind of environment writers can really get to know each other, and their audiences, and exchange ideas. (Most of us were too old or too married to exchange anything else.) Everyone there got to throw ideas around and appreciate a genuinely resourceful and imaginative community. And our final conclusion as a sunny Sunday eased its way towards lunch? That none of what we do would be worth doing or would really mean much without love.

Dreadful, I know – but we'd got all relaxed and unparanoid and truthful and there it was: love. At which point I have to cough a lot and think about death to counteract any disturbing or embarrassing sensations of wellbeing.

Death was, of course, present in Ullapool – as it is everywhere. I made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to rescue an unwell gannet there. Gannets, it turns out, are remarkably heavy birds and can be tetchy. I ended up simply having the thing die in my arms as I carried it towards the Wildlife Rescue Centre. (And please don't write in: I was advised to try carrying it, had covered its head, had not chased it about ... it was just a very poorly gannet.) I have since received a surprisingly high number of gannet emails, gannet postcards and gannet-related items. Obviously, the idea of a gannet-bearing novelist catches the imagination, somehow. I can only say that divesting oneself of a large dead, staring-eyed, rapidly stiffening gannet at the edge of a small and inquisitive town is something I would not necessarily wish upon you. Onwards.